At Your Service, Jack. Brenda Hammond

worked, so she lifted the lid and looked inside. This didn’t bode well at all. There was a threadbare old blanket, a couple of rusty tins, some half-squeezed tubes of goodness-knew-what, an assortment of plastic bags and yellowed newspapers. But that she could deal with later. If she couldn’t get into the car itself, she wouldn’t be able to start it or find the papers to tell her where it should go for servicing. She wouldn’t be able to get the interior vacuumed and shined and the exterior waxed and polished, and she’d be in big trouble. Damn.

      No use hanging around this icy garage. The cold was having a stultifying effect on her ingenuity. She wandered back into the house, mulling over the situation. All the signs indicated that Jack had given her the wrong key intentionally. Right this minute Mr. Smug Carlisle was probably smiling evilly and congratulating himself at having stymied Freddi Elliott.

      In the kitchen she dropped onto the chair at her little desk. For a while she stared absently through the square frame of the window, at the patterned tracery of bare branches outside. Time to summon the backup troops, but who could they be? Aha.

      Having discovered the CAA’s number, she picked up the handset and dialed. Once she’d found out that Jack was indeed a member, she was relieved to hear a promise to help.

      When the man from the CAA arrived, Freddi explained the situation. He looked surprised but unfazed. This time, she made her foray into the garage properly dressed. She wore a coat, hat and woolly gloves. For a second she wondered if she’d need a miner’s headlamp attached to her forehead for a full inspection.